


Aestuo

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Book!Dany, Dany gets her mic drop moment, F/M, Fire and Blood, Fix-It of Sorts, Jon Grows a Spine at Last, My sweet sweet Dany gets her happiness, Not Jonerys in every chapter, Other, S8 noncompliant, Slowburn for sure, Smart!Tyrion, The great war is coming, We're Going Back to Essos kids!, but they pine for each other, fuck D&D, fuck the finale, here there be dragons...and dragonhorns, it takes a while for our babies to get together lol, no Mad Queen, so much yearning, tags to be updated with each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2020-07-27 18:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20050723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.” --T.S EliotAfter the Battle of the Long Night, Dany makes a drastic decision that will affect her journey to the Iron Throne. In the North, the Starks come to terms with some harsh realities while the South prepares for war.





	1. Hollow Men

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into a real writing project. As such, this is unbeta'ed and completely off the cuff. The title comes from the Latin and it means "I burn with desire, I blaze, I seethe". It can also mean "I hesitate" which is also quite fitting for the story I have planned...

_“Unreal friendship may turn to real _   
_But real friendship, once ended, cannot be mended” _   
_― T.S. Eliot, Murder In the Cathedral_

* * *

"The moment one learns the Common Tongue, life becomes very complicated."

Daenerys turns to Missandei with a beseeching look. "Why did we come North, my friend?"

Her closest friend and confidant can only shake her head sadly, the corners of her lips turned down. Daenerys sinks further into the tub of water, trying to ignore how the scalding water has turned a rusty red from blood. 

"Oh, Jorah," she whispers, and then the tears come again. Suddenly, scenes from the battle are flooding back; Jon on Rhaegal's back, screaming her name as she falls into the night. Picking up the sword. Jorah, holding her back from the wights. Jorah, calling her name as she stabs blindly into a shrieking corpse. Jorah, her sweet bear, looking proudly at her even as he lay dying. His last words...

"Do you know his last words to me?" Daenerys wipes furiously at her tears. "Do you know, Missandei?"

Missandei grasps her hand tightly and leans close enough that Daenerys can smell the amber perfume she uses. "You need not tell me, Your Grace."

Daenerys smiles, a ghost of a smile. " 'I am proud of you, Khaleesi." A bitter laugh escapes her. "Jorah did warn me to come North would only be a fool's death. And look where it got us. My sweet bear..."

Missandei gathers her up before she can dissolve into tears again, sits her back and begins to comb out the knots in her hair. After all this time, and even in the harsh winterland of the North, she still rinses the oils from her hair with a water of bitter orange. It used to comfort her, but now all she can think is how the bright citrus scent seems almost overwhelmingly foreign against the bleak landscape of Winterfell. 

She finishes her bath and dresses, wrapping herself in familiar silks of Essos. _Tonight_, she thinks, _I want to feel at home. _Missandei never leaves her side, helping her wind the long blue silks around her body until they fall in pleasing ripples of soft fabric. Without the rough leathers and furs chafing her skin, Daenerys finally relaxes a little. She allows herself to feel glad that Jon will see her in her Essosi clothes, shivers as she imagines his reaction. 

When her hair was braided and her final garb deemed ready, Daenerys walks with Missandei down the stone hallway to the stairs. Before she can take a step down, Missandei grabs her wrist. Daenerys looks back, concerned, but the look on her friend's face is determined, not fearful. 

"Remember, we chose you." Missandei lays her hands on both her shoulders. "We _all_ chose you, Khaleesi."

Daenerys searches her expression, and finds a resolution there which she herself had not felt that night. She nods slowly, then descends. 

* * *

When she reaches the Great Hall, Daenerys realizes her decision to find comfort in the styles of Essos may have been the wrong one. She is met by over a hundred frigid Northern stares, some guarded, and some openly hostile. She searches for familiar faces and meets the pale blue eyes of Sansa, the Lady of Winterfell. Daenerys straightens her back, walking further into the room. Sansa holds her gaze, then turns her head with a sneer. Dany's heart sinks. 

A hand meets her elbow, and she turns. 

"Me and Tormund, we're sitting over there." Jon smiles weakly at her, pointing to a long table at the head of the room where the giant is already deep in his cups. Jon does not touch her, keeping a discreet distance between them. He has dark circles under his eyes, and his voice is hollow as he greets her. Still, he offers her his arm, and Dany feels his eyes on her body, observing the new style. She tries to catch his eye, but he coughs. 

She takes the arm he has offered her, and they make their way into the crowd towards the long table. However, she finds herself quickly separated from him, as more and more Wildings and northmen pour into the Hall, and Jon is swept up in a raucous chorus of cheers. 

She allows the jealousy only a moment of attention before smothering it out of her mind. She fought just as hard as Jon did, she knows. Still, as she takes her seat by Missandei and Tyrion, she can't help but feel a pang of envy at the obvious adoration the Wildlings have for Jon. What she would give to be back with her Khalasar! As the rest of the Stark siblings enter, Dany finds herself longing even for the few sweet memories of her brother, before he turned so bitter. 

As everyone is seated, she looks around, appraising each person in the room. Few grant her the courtesy of a smile. Finally she notices the Waters boy shifting uncomfortably at his table, looking around the room. He meets her gaze, and offers her an awkward smile, as if he were unsure of his place in the room. 

_He seems almost as lost as I_, Daenerys thinks, and her heart is warmed to find someone else who does not quite belong. Yet. 

She stands, and ignores the whispers that immediately rise up around her. _Perhaps they will see, if I..._

_"_You. Your name is Gendry Waters, is it not?"

The room falls deadly quiet. Gendry stands, looking side to side. "Y-yes, your Grace." 

Nearby, Arya levels an angry glare at Daenerys. Dany smiles tightly, ignoring her. 

"I know who you are. Your father was Robert Baratheon, the Usurper. He killed my family, slaughtered my mother and tried to have me killed."

Gendry pales. "Your Grace, I'm just his bastard--"

"Bastard? You are Lord Gendry Baratheon, for that is what I have made you." 

The seated guests murmur amongst themselves. Gendry's pale face is shining, sweat beading down his cheek, but he is grinning and unsteady now. 

"Thank you, your Grace!" 

Daenerys sits, refusing to search the faces of the people around her. Missandei takes her hand with a smile, and Tyrion is smirking over his goblet appraisingly. That is enough for her. _It is enough_, she insists. She feels the heavy gaze of Arya following her still, but dismisses the uncertainty she feels sharply. Enough. 

The remainder of the feast is loud and boisterous, if only to alleviate the loom of grief hanging over everybody. There is food and wine aplenty, some indulging too much. Daenerys has almost forgotten that there even was a battle just a few hours prior, until she hears a voice rise over the rest. 

"HE CLIMBED ON A FUCKING DRAGON AND FOUGHT!" 

She peers over heads, finding the source of the yelling. Tormund stands at least 3 heads over everyone, a smaller and definitely shyer Jon caught in a headlock under one great arm. The giant downs another swig of drink from his bottomless horn and grins.

"WHAT KIND OF PERSON CLIMBS ON A FUCKING DRAGON? A MADMAN OR A KING!"

Dany feels her heart catch in her chest. Surely-surely they would say something, look over to her, anything. She meets Jon's dark eyes, but he looks away too quickly. Bile rises in her throat as she notices the stares of the Northerners in the room. _Enough_, she thinks. _It's enough, we've won the battle, it's enough_\--

She stands, spilling her wine in front of her. Missandei is on her feet behind her in a moment. 

"Your Grace?"

Daenerys shakes her head, breathes heavily. "I need some air."

Missandei nods and gestures for Grey Worm to follow them from his shadowy post. Tyrion looks concerned, but remains seated. 

As they leave, Dany looks over her shoulder again at Jon, trying desperately to find any recognition in his expression. He has the grace to look a little guilty at least, but too quickly is back amongst the Wildlings, singing and drinking. Daenerys chokes back a sob.

Grey Worm leads them down a narrow passage, up a flight of stairs and onto a breezeway overlooking the courtyard.

"This one finds safe place," he says. "Nobody see here."

His gaze lingers on Missandei, but she is already crowding Daenerys, wrapping her arms about her and whispering words of kindness.

"What do I do, Missy? Nothing I do seems enough for these people!"

Daenerys breathes in warm amber, closes her eyes against Missandei's soft curls. "Tell me, my friend. What more can I do?"

She feels the other woman inhale deeply, letting out a long sigh before she responds. 

"Talk to Jon. Tell him how you feel. I have seen the way that man looks at you, your Grace, and if there is one here who would understand, it is him."

Dany steps back and looks into deep brown eyes. Kind eyes. "Thank you, my friend. I will return to my chambers now, and send for Jon."

Grey Worm is already at the ready to accompany her back, but she shakes her head. "No, Grey Worm. I know you two have much to talk about as well. I am not the only one left shaken by the battle."

She presses a soft kiss to her handmaiden's cheek. "Go, Missy. Be with him, tonight."

* * *

The door clicks shut. The soft tap of heavy boots on the stone floors echoes in her chambers, and Dany turns to meet him.

"Jon," she breathes.

Before she can speak further, his hands are on her, lips slanting across hers. It is a bitter kiss, taste of ale and watered wine on her tongue as he licks into her mouth. She gasps, feeling his hands against her skin, tugging at the silks wrapped about her slim frame.

"Wait, Jon!" She tears herself away, panting. "We must speak, please."

He doesn't seem too pleased, frowning confusedly. She presses on, smoothing her hands over his doublet. 

"Your mother, the battle...Jorah."

Jon grunts, pressing a prickly kiss to her forehead.  "I'm sorry," he says, voice thick. 

"He loved me...and I loved him, but not the same. Not in the way I love you." Her breath catches in her throat. Jon looks down at her, eyes dark.

Dany swallows. "Is that alright?"

There's a pause that stretches just too long to be comfortable, and then he's upon her again like a wolf. His hands catch in her dress, sliding beneath the silks. She bites down on his lip, trying to remember to breath as she feels him tugging on her braided hair. She fumbles with the clasps on his vest, moaning softly against his lips as he leans into her, all hard lines and wolf teeth, nipping and licking and sucking. 

She reaches his belt, and he freezes. Pushes her away, hand wiping at his mouth. Eyes downcast. 

Dany feels the hurt rising up inside again, the pain of his dismissal clear. 

"I can't." His voice is raspy, desperate. He looks at her, looks away. 

The fire burns in the hearth beside them, and Daenerys wants nothing more than to throw herself on the fire, burn away with the coals until nothing was left of her shame and loneliness. 

Jon turns to go, but she reaches out and stays him with a hand on his arm. He's tense, so tense it hurts to watch. _This is not the same man I met on Dragonstone,_ Dany thinks sadly. 

"Your sisters. They can't know. Please," she says, breath catching in her throat. She hates that tone in her voice, hates how close she is to begging. 

"They're my sisters, your Grace. How can they not know? I have to tell them." 

In any other situation, his earnestness would have been endearing. Now, though, it was infuriating. Daenerys wrings her hands, steps into his space, forces the man she thought she loved so deeply to look her in the eye. 

"Please, Jon. Just wait a little while more. I'm- I fear for what might happen, after, if you were to tell them."

He holds her gaze only a moment before the shamefaced look is back, and he is staring into the fire once more. 

"They're my sisters," he says firmly. "They'd never betray me."

When the door slams shut behind him, Dany can't be sure if it was accidental or not. _How did things go so wrong so fast? I saved them, lost half my people for them, my Jorah, and they repay me with suspicion and isolation... _

She sinks to the floor, freezing cold chasing away the warmth where Jon's hands had been mere moments before. Tears begin fall from her cheeks to the floor, creating wet spots on the dark stone. As her vision fills with tears, the dark splashes could almost be blood, like blood on snow...

The door bursts open, and she startles, launching herself up from where she had been on the floor crying. 

"Your Grace?!"

Missandei and Grey Worm run into the room, Tyrion close behind them.

Her handmaiden is on the floor with her in an instant, pulling her up and wiping the tears from her face. Grey Worm stands still by the door, but his curled fist twitches against his longspear, and his teeth are set painfully in a grimace. 

"You Grace, are you quite alright?" 

Tyrion peers at her, his mismatched eyes alight with concern. "We saw a certain Lord of Winterfell leaving your chambers rather hurriedly. Did something happen between you two that we should know about?"

Daenerys clasps her Hands's hands in her own. "Tyrion, tell me truthfully. Do you think the people of the North will ever come to believe in me? Will they ever have love for me here?"

Her Hand hesitates, brow furrowed. "I..I believe it will be difficult, Your Grace. The North is a proud kingdom, after all. But if you take the Iron Throne, they may be persuaded--"

"To tolerate me? To afford me the respect of my title, as long as they can have their precious independence?" Dany shakes her head. "How can I rule, when the people I rule hate me? In Essos, only the former Masters held me in such distaste, but it seems here, no matter what I do I am pushed aside and disrespected."

"Your Grace," Missandei pushes gently, "What happened with Jon?"

Dany snorted. "Lord Snow has made it quite clear that whatever interest he held for me has been snuffed out." 

Tyrion heaves a sigh. "Well, that is a pity. I had hoped to win a political match between the two of you yet, but..." He frowns. "Now that the dead are vanquished, the only enemy that remains is Cersei. We still have several thousand Unsullied, perhaps two thousand Dothraki. The North remains as it was, barely armed enough to defend a single Castle." 

He pauses, considering. "Your Grace, if you really wanted--"

Another loud bolt of noise sounds, and a yelp of pain rings out as Grey Worm bodily slams someone against the wall. "Ow! Wait, your Grace!"

"Grey Worm, stop!"

Gendry backs slowly away from the Unsullied commander, shrugging his doublet into place. He offers a stiff bow to the Dany, but his smile when he stands back up seems genuine. 

"I, ah. I was going to retire to my chambers, but on the way I heard some things you might want to hear. And someone gave me this, for you."

He holds out a slim scroll of cream coloured paper. It has no seal, but a thick blob of red wax to keep the furled edges together. Daenerys cuts into it with a fingernail, begins to read the fine print inside.

Tyrion presses the young lord for information. "What exactly did you hear, Gendry?"

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his head. "Well, it's more than a little odd. I didn't even want to believe it myself," he admits. "I was coming right down the passageway I was, and I heard Lady Sansa and Lady Arya arguin'." Gendry bit his lip, clearly hesitant to go on. "They might have been talking about how to 'get the Dragon Queen out of Winterfell', your Grace."

Dany looks up from the scroll, calmer than she expected. After all, hadn't this been building up the entire time? 

"They mean to kill me," she says calmly. Gendry makes a face, like he doesn't expect her to be so blunt, and she laughs. 

"I have no love here," she says softly, and Tyrion gives her a pained look. "Only fear."

"And that is why, my friends, we must change our plans quite drastically." 

Dany hands the open scroll to Tyrion. "You'll want to read that, my Lord. I have no doubt your keen mind will find it most interesting."

To Gendry, she extends a hand, which he takes quickly. "My lord, I hope you'll forgive me changing your position in this world so suddenly. I truly hope we can remain allies, and that you'll use your new position to it's highest advantage."

He catches the hint and bows low. "Of course, Your Grace. I am honoured that you would legitimize me. It's all I've ever wanted."

She smiles. "Good. Then I hope you won't mind doing me a favour."

She leans in close, whispers in his ear. Gendry nods once, twice, then bows low again. "Of course, your Grace. I'll see to it immediately.

He takes his leave then, slipping out the door quietly and making his way down the hall. 

Daenerys spares a glance out the window, and watches as fat snowflakes drift down to the dark courtyard below.

"I suppose you'll want to take action quickly, then?" Tyrion waves the scroll in his hand. "This isn't exactly the sort of thing you can wait on until you've had a few drinks before deciding." He pauses. "Unless you'd like to have a few drinks before deciding, of course."

Dany spreads her hands over her chest, feeling her heart beat rapidly and a joyous trepidation begin to build inside her. "I'm afraid not, Lord Tyrion."

She clasps the hands of both her friends and grins. 

"We act tonight."

* * *

Jon wakes well after the hour of the nightingale, head pounding and mouth thick with sleep. His head continues to pound wildly, so loudly...

"Your Grace! Your Grace!"

There's a second pounding at his chamber door. He drags himself up and out of bed, pulling on boots and raking his hair back from his head.

When he jerks open the door, he finds a flustered squire outside, face flushed and sweaty. 

"What is it?" He growls. 

The squire pulls nervously on his tunic, eyes casting side to side. "The Dragon Queen, your Grace!"

Jon feels a shiver of panic crawl up his spine. "Aye, what of the Queen?"

The squire lets out a little yelp, like he's afraid of Jon's reaction. "I'm s-so sorry your Grace--"

"Spit it out," Jon says forcefully.

The squire gulps down a breath before a wail escaped him.

"She's _gone_!"


	2. Memory and Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! So after some confusion last night, I did update the tags on this fic. I don't want to get any hopes up if people are expecting Jonerys in every chapter. They are my endgame, though they're not a priority yet, because there's lots of intrigue to set up before they can get their mits on one another. 
> 
> Also, I had originally wanted to post this chapter later this week, buuut. It was done already, and I know the pain of waiting to read an update, so here's my promise: I won't withhold chapters from you if they're already written.

“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”   
― T.S. Eliot

  
The rest of the morning passes by in a blur of commotion and shouts. Many are relieved to hear the Dragon Queen has vanished, though far more are left bewildered and confused as to the reason for her hasty flight. 

Jon searches her chambers as soon as the squire squeaks out the news. He finds nothing. Chest of drawers, empty. Wardrobe, empty. Not a single silver hair on her bed. He feels like a cad, rifling though the linens in the hope that he'd find anything, anything at all of her. He breathes in the scent of bitter orange. Nothing. 

He thinks back to last night, searching for anything that may have happened. His drink addled memories are hazy, but through the fog he remembers a fight. Her sweet mouth on his, the bitter orange scent of her clouding his mind. Then her words. _Don't tell them...please. Not in the way I love you..._

_I love you. Is that alright?_

_I love you..._

Outside, it's still half dark. The sun's light filters in weak, winter having dimmed the shine. He calls for a servant to rouse the keep. Jon can't bear to think anymore on her words, but they drift in and out of his memory like butterflies. _I love you, I love you, I love you..._

The servant he called opens the chamber door, calls out a question. Jon storms past them in a fury. 

"I want everyone gathered in the hall in an hour," he roars. 

* * *

An hour later, the lords and ladies of Winterfell have all heard the news. The Dragon Queen is gone, and with her, the Unsullied, the Dothraki, and two dragons. 

Jon paces the length of the great hall, many eyes upon him. 

“Do we at least know where she went? What direction? Who went with her?”  
Jon keeps his voice even, though the strain is evident. He stares out at the gathered council, which includes his sisters, who look perturbed, and Bran, who sits in his chair facing a window. Bran’s eyes are currently a milky white, and he gazes outwards.

Nobody answers him. Someone coughs politely. Arya has been rolling her eyes nonstop since Jon gathered the meeting, and Sansa grips the arms of her chair with white knuckles.

Jon slams his fist against the table. “Goddamnit all, do we know anything?”

His voice cracks slightly on the last syllable, and Sansa raises her head. Jaw set and eyes ablaze, she grits her teeth before speaking. She addresses the room, making a point not to directly answer her brother. 

“My lords, the dead are gone. The Night King has been slain, by none other than the North’s own Arya Stark.”

Beside her, Arya stiffens, one hand gripping Needle tightly. They share a look, before Sansa continues.

“I don't see why we're wasting our time with this, my Lords. The North has what we’ve always wanted, freedom. Freedom from the dead, freedom from the other kingdoms, freedom from disloyal tyrants who would take our home from us. And now, we are free of the Dragon Queen, as well.”

Murmurs of agreement from the gathered men. Jon opens his mouth to bite back. 

Arya cuts in quickly. “Brother, I don’t see why we should be so worried. We have everything we need here. The Dragon Queen wanted us all to bend the knee, and well…”

She trails off, smirking.

“If she’s not here, we don’t have to.”

Around him, Jon hears various sounds of assent from the Northern lords again. Sansa relaxes back in her seat, lips curled up in a smile. She knows she’s won them over. Jon may still be considered King in the North by many, but it’s his silver-tongued sister who makes the lords weak with clever words.

To his surprise, it’s Jaime who cuts in to support his point.

“That may all be well and good, but is nobody else here even a little bit disturbed by the fact that there are currently two fully grown dragons heading Gods know where, with two very large armies?”

The Lannister shakes his head. “They say Northern pride is strong, but they say nothing of Northern ignorance.”

At that, Sansa bristles. “Ser Jaime, you are not of the North, so I don’t expect you to understand. But we have fought ceaselessly for our independence, and we will not bow to the will of foreign monarchs. The North remembers, and the North takes care of their own.”

Jaime barks out a laugh. “My Gods, but you are still a child. What will you do when Cersei decides she’s done playing children’s games with the North? If she hears even a whisper of Northern independence I promise you, my Lady, there will be no stopping her from getting what she wants.”

He steps forward, leaving his seat to address the high table. 

"As you all can tell, Daenerys has left with her armies, her dragons, and her council. That includes my brother, Tyrion. If he's left the North to go with the Queen, I can only assume he understands the danger of waiting here for Cersei to attack us." His mouth curls in a wry smile. "Finally, someone in our family with some intelligence."

Everyone holds their breath, waiting for Sansa. She twists her pretty mouth, clearly caught out in her stubbornness.

Finally, Jaime cuts the tension. With a sneer, he bites out his final words for the assembly.

“None of you are prepared, and it seems none of you are willing. I shall return south alone to deal with Cersei. If any of you are brave enough or honorable enough, I'll see you there.”

With that, he turns and leaves. The heavy stomping of his boots echoes and fills the hall, making the silence of the people within seem deafening. When he reaches the end of the hall he yanks the door open, then stops. He casts a look over his shoulder, directed at Brienne.

The knight opens her mouth, closes it. No words come. Her eyes seem to plead something, but Jaime just shakes his head sharply and leaves. The door slams shut, and he is gone.

The room holds a collective breath for a moment, everybody waiting to see what happens next. A Dragon Queen, then a Lannister, leaving in the same day?

Sansa breathes out a long sigh. “Well. That’s one less southron royal to deal with.” Her tone is meant to be light, but in light of all that has passed, it sounds hollow and flippant. 

Brienne is staring at her openly. “My Lady, shouldn’t we offer him support? He can’t possibly deal with Cersei alone—“

“Jaime has made his choice, and Daenerys has made hers. The North is ours to defend, and ours to rule.”

“You mean yours.”

Jon takes a step towards her. His face is dark and his words even more so. Brienne steps back, though she keeps close to Sansa. Her expression is sour. 

Jon keeps his eyes on Sansa, who lifts her head defiantly at his words. 

“You’re the one who wants to rule an independent North, not me. I’ll not sit back and let our allies scatter to the wind while you sit pretty behind stone keeps and walls, Sansa.”

Before she can spit out her next retort, they are interrupted by the sound of wheels on stone.

Bran pushes himself forward, away from his seat by the window. His eyes are warm brown again, and he looks scared. 

Arya rushes to help him, pushing him the rest of the way to join in at the high table. Once he settles there, he meets Jon's eyes. Jon feels a shiver creep down his spine. Something is wrong. Bran breaks the gaze to address the room. 

“There is a greater threat at hand. I have seen past our southron borders. Cersei has already amassed the Golden Company, and they march North on foot. as we speak.”

Jon curses. “How long?”

Bran looks up at him. “Two months, at the most. They march on foot, through snow and ice, but they have many men. And elephants.”

More mutters from the lords, this time of fear and peril. Sansa clenches her fist, aware she's losing their focus. 

Her voice rings out shrilly. “Two months, though, that’s a long time. We’ll be fine!”

Jon glares at her. “Aye, you’ll be fine. Until they reach Winterfell, and you find yourself alone in the keep, with naught but a scarce three hundred men to protect you.”

Sansa glances over to Arya for support. Arya herself has paled, eyes wide as she considers Bran’s words. She has heard of the Golden Company, and knows even an assassin would need the luck of the Gods to survive an onslaught of that scale. Not even she speaks up for Sansa now. Who could, when faced with an army famed for their ferocity in battle? 

To his left, Jon sees Ser Davos thumbing through sheaves of paper he had brought with him. It must be grim news, for the Onion Knight’s pleasant face is dark in thought, and he hasn't spoken a word the whole time. Now though, he speaks up. 

“We may have another issue yet to face, yer Ladyship,” Davos says. “It’s midwinter, and we’ve not the grain to feed the North for two whole months.”

He looks between Jon and Sansa, brow furrowed. “The North will starve before we ever see an elephant.” He tries for levity, but it falls flat. 

At this news the lords are squabbling amongst themselves in increasingly louder tones. They begin directing their ire at Sansa, and Jon feels a slight relief at the fact that they still don't look to him as their King when it comes to matters of granaries and rations. The rising pitch of the council threatens to become an all out riot as each lord shrieks in dismay over the possibility of starvation. 

Jon pushes one lord away from the high table who runs up, fist shaking and voice quavering in anger. Many are standing, already shrugging off their loyalties to the keep. They are quickly losing control of the meeting, tensions spiraling out amongst the proud Northerners.

“Enough!”

When Jon looks over at her, he sees that Sansa has collapsed on herself, hands folded over her face. Her shoulders tremble through her next words.

“Enough. Thank you, Ser Davos. My Lords, please take your leave. I know you all are concerned, and you have a right to be. I would have a few words with my brother, please. Alone.”

Jon keeps his eyes on her as the lords shuffle out of the hall, all complaining and muttering to themselves. He knows they feel fear at the news of this new danger on the horizon. How not? He hopes they don't all decide to abandon Winterfell. They can't handle yet another turncoat tide on the brink of battle.

When all the lords have shuffled out, Sansa finally glances up. She finds Arya still hovering over her, one hand at the ready over Needle’s guard.

“You too, Arya.” She sighs. “I need to speak with Jon.”

Arya looks annoyed, but huffs and concedes. “I’ll take Bran back to the Godswood, then.”

They wheel out together, and the door clicks shut once more.

Jon turns to Sansa then, desperation coloring his voice.

“We need Daenerys back here, Sansa. We can’t face this alone. This isn't the time to squabble about who rules where.”

Sansa twists her mouth into a frown. “We finally may have independence. We can live our lives free from the tyranny of the South, Jon! Don’t you see?”

Her words are spoken in earnest, but Jon hears the quake and tremble too. He knows she’s shaken. Perhaps he can finally get through to her.

“Fine, Sansa. We’ll pretend you get to keep Winterfell.” At her raised eyebrow he nods. “Aye. you get to keep Winterfell. Let’s not pretend anymore. I know you want the North for yourself. I know you want to be Queen in the North. You've made it clear you don't want me around to rule.”

She looks uncomfortable, but does not deny it. He presses on, urging her to see the truth.

“What happens then, in two weeks, a month, when there’s no food and no allies to trade with? The North can’t supply all its people with food grown in the glass houses.”

Sansa won’t meet his eye. “We’ll figure it out, Jon.”

He keeps going, his tone becoming harsher. “What about when the Golden Company comes, then? How do you propose to defeat them now that you’ve driven our only hope away?”

At this she stands, eye ablaze.

“I drove her away? How dare you pin this on me!”

Jon can’t keep his voice down anymore as all the anger and confusion spills forth.

“Aye, you drove her away, Sansa! You treated her like your enemy since the first day we arrived here, and you shut her out. We used her dragons, let her send her people into battle on the front lines for us, and for what? How did we show her our gratitude? With hostility and fear? We made her feel like she had to leave!”

He spits the words out bitterly, uncaring. Sansa is quiet then, watching him carefully.

“We?” she asks softly.

Jon snorts. “Aye, ‘we’. I’ll not pretend I didn’t play my own part in this. I kept her too distant, shut her out.”

“But you,” he goes on, pointing at his sister. “You deliberately made her out to be some sort of evil Queen, and she’s not. She gave up everything to come North.”

Sansa is quiet. They sit in silence for a moment, digesting the emotions tossed about between them.

"Have you not considered the possibility that perhaps the Queen decided she no longer wanted to be our ally? That she came North to clear the playing field for herself?"

Jon shook his head. "You don't know her like I do, Sansa. You never even tried. Dany is a good person with a good heart. All she's ever wanted was to help people."

The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. "And look what we gave her for it. I'll never make this up to her."

Jon slumps down into a chair, weary of the talk. He wants to make this right. Sansa rests her head in her hand, and he remembers now that she's still not yet reached her seventeenth nameday. She's a child, he knows, and she's acting like one. They sit for a long time without speaking. The daylight filtering in the glass windows is stronger now, though still a winter pale. 

It's Sansa who breaks the silence again. 

“I’ll not go South to beg her forgiveness, Jon.”

The words are quiet, but her tone is final.

He nods slowly. He knew she wouldn't go, would never admit out loud to being wrong. His mind is made up, though.

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to South."

She lifts her head, wary of him. Maybe she thinks he's conceding to her, but that's not the case. 

Jon stands, meets her cold blue eyes with his grey ones. 

"I'm going to find her."

* * *

  
Arya is just returning from the Godswood when she spots a familiar face. She runs up, cheeks red from the cold.

“Gendry!”

She stops, cursing herself for appearing too excited. Fortunately he doesn’t seem to have noticed the flush in her cheeks or how quickly she came up on him.

“Arya.”

He gives her his easy smile, and she tenses, unused to her heart racing so hard around a person. It’s strange to be so aware of a person like this. She sees the muscles in his neck and suddenly remembers what it’s like to touch that skin. To taste it. She wonders if he’s thinking about that night. If he’s thought of her at all.

She brushes it off and leans into him, examining the scraps of metal and leather he’s carrying in his arms.

“What’re you doing here?” She asks bluntly.

Gendry is unruffled by her sharp tone, and his deep voice is pleasant in his answer.

“Your brother has decided to go South. He’ll be needing lighter armor.”

She gives him a questioning look, and he flushes.

“I’m, ah, heading to the forge.” He gestures with his armload of material. “Armor doesn’t make itself.”

Arya smirks, but feels the newly made Lord is being evasive. Something in his words makes her bristle. All thoughts of that night leave her mind, replaced by a single fear.

“What do you mean, Jon is going South? I thought we were all staying here. _Together_.”

Gendry shuffles his feet, looking down. “You’ll have to take that up with your sister, I’m afraid. They had some sort of a spat, and now Jon’s going South to bring the Queen back.”

Arya narrows her eyes at him. “Leave it to my brother to fuck off South for a girl.”

Gendry shrugs, looking steadily at her. She wishes she could be so calm. She knows she looks it, but inside she’s always racing, always trying to be three steps ahead. It’s exhausting. All at once, the weight of the past week comes rushing at her, threatening to knock her off her feet.

Arya inhales sharply, once, twice. _Brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes. Blue eyes._  
She feels confined, imagining cold hands tugging at her hair, over her mouth, pulling her down onto the snow…

“Arya?”

Gendry has a hand on her shoulder. It’s warm, and the weight pulls her back to him. He looks at her, and she feels that he’s _seeing_ her.

“Are you alright, Arya?”

She pulls in a tight breath and nods. Of course she is. A girl can’t be beholden to weakness. She’s seen the many faces of Death. Why would it bother her only now?

“You’ll stay though, right?” She wants to know. “I mean, after everything, you have to stay.”

She hopes he understands what she doesn’t want to say. What she won’t say.

_I want you to stay._

Gendry frowns. “Well, I don’t know.” He kicks some snow, head bowed. “The Queen made me Lord of Storm’s End. I can’t see how I can avoid that, even if she’s gone away.”

Arya feels her jaw go slack. “So you’re just going to leave?” _Going to leave me?_

Gendry cough awkwardly. “I didn’t say I wanted to, but you can’t very well go against the word of the Queen, can you? Besides.” Here he stands straighter, something like pride creeping into his voice. “I can actually help more people like this.”

In his eyes, Arya can see the wonder of it all. “Imagine, me, a bastard from Flea Bottom, risin’ up to lordship. I could help the smallfolk, Arya.”

Arya glared at him, feeling the wolf in her curl into a snarl. “You never seemed interested in all that fancy shit before.”

At this he falters. “Arya, I—“

“There you are, lad!”

Davos Seaworthy claps a roughened hand on Gendry’s shoulder. He hides the wince well, but Arya catches it. Davos doesn't notice, and ruffles Gendry's hair. 

“About ready for the trip, boy? We're just waiting on you now." Davos sees her then, and offers a polite bow. "Yer Ladyship."

She ignores the title. Arya looks at the two of them, heart sinking in her chest. He's really going, then. Leaving, like her brother. Like her father.

Gendry looks at her like he wants to say more, and part of her wishes he would sweep her up and kiss her, tell her he’ll never leave her. 

Instead, he reaches out, grips her hand and shakes it firmly. “I’ll be seeing you, Arya.” 

Is it her imagination that hears the tremble in his voice? That feels the way he touches her hand so gently? He looks at her too long, but still he turns, he walks away. 

She refuses to watch him leave with Davos. She won’t turn her head to see if he’s watching her watch him. That’s just for stupid girls with stupid dreams, she chides. Who is she, to suddenly be wanting a grand love like in one of Sansa’s silly tales?

“Easy now, Arya,” she mutters. One hand on her chest, she can feel the pulse of her heart even through her leathers. It’s light, fast. She feels it skip a beat once, twice.

She turns her head. She looks back.

* * *

Drogon had flown swifter then ever as the Queen's party left Winterfell, his strength tripling as he shook the ice off his back. Once in warmer climates, he had beat his wings in a fury that churned storms in the sea below, and they flew. One day passed like the blink of an eye, and suddenly it was nightfall, the sky deep black and the stars like hung jewels. A journey such as this on dragon back should be enough to tire anyone out, but Missandei feels rejuvenated as she finally steps off of Drogon's massive winged back.

He takes off into the night, black hide blending in with the sky until all that can be seen of him is the inky starless outline of his body, blotting out the moon. 

"Does it feel good, to be back?"

Her Queen takes her hand, and Missandei smiles. The warm air around them is balmy, and it smells of volcanic minerals. The sea churns softly on the shore, a gentle sound that lulls her, comforts her. 

"Yes, your Grace." 

Daenerys smiles widely and flings herself onto the sand. Missandei giggles, joining her on ground. Around them, Unsullied and Dothraki keep watch. Grey Worm is nearby speaking with the Lannister, their silhouettes almost invisible against the dark horizon. 

Daenerys levels her gaze at Missandei. "We have much to do, my friend. We must enjoy this time before the work begins."

She smiles again, taking the Queen's small hand in both of hers and squeezing. Daenerys grins, and throws a handful of sand from her free hand at her. Missandei shrieks and breaks contact to hurl a fistful of sand back at the Queen. Daenerys kicks off her shoes and throws herself at Missandei, knocking her back into more soft sand. 

They sink further into the black sand, taking turns heaping piles of it one on top of the other. 

It has been nearly a year since she has seen her Queen this carefree. It's ironic, given their situation, but it's a welcome respite nonetheless. Missandei remembers a time when it was common to find the young Khaleesi alone on a balcony, swinging her bare feet and singing to herself. The past months have been dark and full of loss, but tonight they are free to be careless. Free to be happy. 

Once Daenerys is satisfied that neither of them can move under mounds of glittering sand, the silver haired girl breaths out a sweet sigh of relief. 

"I had almost forgotten," she says softly. "How good it feels to break free."

They relax in the warm sand, ignoring the passage of time for a joyous moment. She closes her eyes, dreams of a different beach. A white beach, lined with tall trees. Beautiful butterflies drifting on warm breezes...

A sharp gasp to her left wakes Missandei from her reverie. Daenerys is struggling with something beneath the sand, face scrunched up in concentration.

Daenerys wriggles a hand out of its sand prison, clutching something large and round. Missandei peers over, but it's too dark to see properly.

"It was true," she hears the young woman mutter.

The Queen turns to Missandei, smiling broadly, tears in her eyes.

"It was all true, Missandei!"

"What was true, your Grace?"

Daenerys shakes herself out of the sand and holds something out to Missandei. It's a stone, smoothed by the ocean and a pearly white. Looking closer, she can see what look to be ridges carved into the sides of the stone. Ridges that look like...

"Dragon scales," she breathes. Daenerys is watching her closely. "Is this a...?"

"A dragon egg."

The voice of the Queen is charged with excitement. Her violet eyes are alight, and Missandei could swear she sees flames dancing within them.

"The raven Gendry gave me was from a priestess of Asshai. She wrote me of a vision she had in the flames, a vision of eggs hidden deep beneath black sand, of dragons birthed in fire on the beaches of Dragonstone."

Missandei raises her brow in surprise. "_Eggs_? There's more?" 

Daenerys nods, her hands caressing the egg. Her eyes are fixed on it, entranced by it. 

Missandei feels her own excitement building. To see the birth of the first three dragons was a privilege she'd not had, but now there may be more...

"How many more?" she whispers.

Daenerys looks up at her, and grins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, another cliffhanger! I'm sorry, haha. So, lots to unpack here! I hope I did Jon's thought and feelings justice. It's a little harder for me to get inside his head. Arya was a lot of fun to write, and I definitely want to go back to her soon. I'm sorry to the Gendrya/Braime shippers for tearing them away from each other, but it's important that it happen this way. They'll see each other again, I promise.  
I still need healing time to give Sansa her POV lol, but she's coming up too. 
> 
> And yes. There will be dragons. 
> 
> Lots of dragons.


	3. Spring Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I published my second fic, which is completed, and then the rest of the week kind of got away from me. I thought it was wednesday all day today, then realized it's already almost friday!

_“If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?” _   
_― T.S. Eliot_

Dawn breaks the morning after Gendry and Jon have left Winterfell. It is cold, fresh snow falling over the bricks and stones of the keep. It washes away blood, dirt, and filth, but Arya can still see in her mind’s eye where each body had lain the night before.

Jon had been solemn as he left, his small party taking off into the night without so much as a word. Arya watched him go, with a sick feeling of dread. Death hung over them like a plague cloud, but she couldn’t explain why.

As the sun comes over the mountains, Arya seeks out her sister. It doesn’t take her long to find Sansa. Her elder sister is if nothing else, irritatingly predictable.

Sansa stands on the precipice of Winterfell’s high walkway, her face solemn and her cloak blowing back in the breeze.

As Arya approaches, she notes that her fair sister has traded the dull grey cloth that all Stark clothes are traditionally made from for a silvery grey that shimmers when it catches the light. It is embroidered with a fine white thread, too glossy to be Northern stock. It blows back dramatically with the breeze, as is no doubt intended by the Lady wearing it.

“What are you all dressed up for?” Arya asks, slinking up the last few steps to the walkway.

Sansa makes a show of going stiff, then turning to look down at Arya. It would have been a regal gesture, were it not for the apparent effort it took her. Sansa was never one for cold dramatic airs. Arya remembers a time when Sansa was full of gentleness and poise. That Sansa seemed to burn faintly in her memory, a warm flame so different to this frigid ice Queen.

Sansa ignores her question. “I’ve made preparations to fortify the keep. We’ll triple the defense at the walls, build stronger supports to keep out the Golden Company. You should plan to stay inside the keep from now on; I’m barring the gates come sundown.”

Arya stares at her. “Sansa, you can’t possibly think you’ll keep the Golden Company out.”

Sansa sniffs. “I am Lady of Winterfell. It is my duty to protect this keep. I plan on doing that, until the end.”

She falls quiet with a sort of quiet finality. Arya looks out over the courtyard. Men of all ages are dragging heavy timber across the yard, already working on the fortifications. There are so few left after the battle. The ones that remain are haggard and injured, or thin and on the brink of collapse.

“Where has Jon gone off to?” Arya asks finally.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “He’s gone to find the Dragon Queen, and beg her to come back.”

“Do you think she will? Come back, that is.”

Sansa shrugs one shoulder, flicking some snow off her arm. “The North will not bow to a Southron Queen, you know that Arya. Winterfell is all that’s left of our family, the last great keep of the North.”

Arya chews on that for a moment, thinking on Sansa’s words. She knows she wants to protect Winterfell, yet she knows that the den is not what makes the pack strong.

“Do you still think it was the right thing to do, plotting to freeze her out?”

Sansa side eyes her hard. “It’s not like we wanted to kill her. Just make her feel unwelcome. Besides, we didn’t even have to do anything, she left before we ever said a word. It seems our brother was able to put his foot in his mouth all on his own.”

Arya shivers. “I don’t know, Sansa. She’s a powerful enemy, and I don’t think she’ll be so friendly the next time we see her. Especially if Jon’s gone and fucked up and pissed her off.”

They share another tepid silence, neither willing to further the conversation on the Targaryen Queen.Below, more men piled on the timber and stone, the walls growing thicker, and higher. Not enough to stop an elephant, Arya knows. She’d seen one once, in Braavos. Giant grey beasts with gusts of ivory and great stepping feet. One alone would decimate the great gates of Winterfell.

One question nagged at her mind, a kernel of doubt sowed by Gendry.

“What of the small folk, Sansa? Will they be safe?”

Her sister’s lips tighten, then smooth out, face calm.

“They’ll be behind the wall. We’ll keep them sheltered in the crypts.”

Arya frowned. “And what about Eastwatch? The Badlands? White Harbor? What about them, Sansa?”

Sansa clenched her hands tightly against her sides. “They’ll be safe, Arya. What’s most important is the pack. The pack survives.”

She wouldn’t meet Arya’s eye, looking down at the snow. “I’m closing the gates and barring them at sundown. You should remain behind the wall, in the keep.”

Sansa swept past Arya, descending rapidly down the stairs. Arya watched as the redhead disappeared inside the great keep, the black doors falling swiftly closed behind her.

“Gods help me.” Arya whispered. “I’ve got to find Jon.”

———

Jaime had ridden a scarce two days into the long journey to King’s Landing before his luck finally ran out. It had been an uneventful ride for the most part, up until he reached The Twins.

He had stopped to buy food and wine, letting his poor horse rest a moment outside a derelict establishment. The Inn was part eatery, part brothel apparently, with women in scant furs leaning enticingly against the grubby wood frame of the building.

Jaime was filling a skin with wine when he heard a rowdy group of hunters enter the previously unoccupied dining room. He covers his golden hand with his cloak, pulling the hood down low, though he knew that his unshaven face and haggard appearance was disguise enough.

He ignores the rowdy men at first, putting the stopper in his wine skin and slinging it over his back. He tosses a few crowns on the bar and makes for the door.

“By the blessed, did you see the size of those tusks?”

Jaime freezes, hand over the door. The voice of the rugged hunter behind him is low, but the sound carries in the thin winter air. Jaime leans over the doorframe casually, adjusting his boots as he listens.

“And a right fearsome look to them too. I reckon there’s more gold in their armor that has the whole of the royal castle!” 

There’s no mistaking it, Jaime knows. The Golden Company is closer than anticipated. He straightens, and walks back towards the men, keeping his face casual.

“Seen anything interesting, lads?”

He tries for a Northern brogue, and fails. The hunter raises an eyebrow at him, but replies nonetheless.

“Aye. A hundred thousand men at least, all marching North. They’ve got beasts from the East, and scorpions from the Royal City.”

Good, Jaime thinks. That means Cersei doesn’t know the Dragon Queen has flown the coop.

“How far from here, would you say?”

The hunter grunts. “Too close for my taste, that’s for fuckin’ sure. I’d say they’re a day’s jaunt from Riverrun. Young Ed saw them coming up from Harrenhal.”

A scrawny boy, freckled and broad-nosed, speaks up. “Aye, I saw ‘em comin’ up the King’s Road, swarmin’ the road as bold as anything.”

He looks awed. “They’ve got olephants,” he breaths in excitement.

“Elephants,” Jaime mutters.

He turns and storms out of the Inn, waving away the golden haired woman, who beckons him with green bedroom eyes.

He mounts his horse, muttering an apology as he swings his body heavily across the saddle. Then he rides into the dusk.

Traveling just a little ways off the King’s Road, Jaime reaches Riverrun in record time. Just as Dawn breaks, he sees the township over the crest of a hill, just an hour’s ride out of reach. Sprawling on the outskirts of the town, just a mere three hundred paces away, is the Golden Company’s encampment.

A hundred thousand golden tents, each emblazoned with the seal of the Company, form a maze across the muddy field. Soldiers work like ants, putting up giant poles deep in the earth. The reason for this becomes sickeningly clear as Jaime watches three giant wagons roll into the campsite.

The canvas flaps are raised, and ten men tug at thick ropes. Out steps an elephant. Its thick legs and heavy feet make the ground tremble, and Jaime can feel the vibrations even at his safe distance. Two more follow the first, leaving their covered wagons and walking to the poles where they are tied with lengths of chain and rope.

Jaime dismounts and walks nearer to the camp, careful to stick to shadow and tree. When he’s crept a fair distance closer, he stops and takes refuge behind a large tree. The ground is cold and muddy from snow, but he squats, watching the Company.

From his vantage point he can now see the each gargantuan toe of the elephants is painted a garish shade of gold. The tusks, too, are decorated with bands of gold. The elephants hunker down, and the earth trembles.

Jaime creeps closer still, until he can just make out the chatter of the camp. Soldiers sing bawdy songs and yell and shout over the din of the camp, and Jaime struggles to hear any coherent phrases.

He risks edging closer still, until he is precariously squatting behind a convenient boulder. A pair of soldiers patrols a few paces away, and Jaime holds his breath, heart racing.

“I’ll be happy when we get the hell out of this sorry waste,” one soldier was saying. “I’ve never seen such a miserable plot of mud and march in my life.”

The other solider grunts in agreement. “The Royal City is much more agreeable. Such a shame the Queen’s a crazy bitch. I’ll miss the whores when they’re gone.”

They both laugh uproariously.

“I just hope the Queen pays us the rest of our fee before she blows the whole thing up,” the first soldier crows. “Imagine that, your Queen lighting the whole place up with wildfire. One minute you’re having a right nice time with a lovely gal, the next, boom!” He laughs.

Jaime pales. No, that can’t be. Not after the Sept. Not again.

The first soldier continues. “She’s not right, that Cersei. She’s got a feral look to her. Mind you, I wouldn’t mind having her for a night, a queen and all that. Still, that wildfire business. And she’s got the whole fuckin’ kingdom squirreled away right above the stuff.”

Jaime hears shuffling, and the soldiers switch direction.

“I don’t like that magic stuff”, the second soldier says. “Don’t understand why it can’t all be swords and fists. One two, knock on the head, stabbed in the eye, and you’re done. No muss no fuss. Not like this magic shit.”

The voices grow louder, but Jaime hears them as though underwater, mind racing.He couldn’t go to King’s Landing, not now, not alone, and certainly not if Cersei was planning on an all out citywide destruction. He curses. If Cersei’s gone that far there’s nothing he can do. He needs more power than he currently has if he’s going to stop her, something as strong as magic…

He jumps up from his hiding spot. The two soldier start, then both commence shouting at him.

“Hey you! Where’d you come from!”

Jaime is already running, already yanking on the reigns of his horse. They run at an all out gallop, making straight for the King’s Road.

Jaime prays to every god he remembers that’s he’s right in what he’s about to do. As he turns eastward, he’s suddenly grateful for all his many geography lessons from his youth.

After all, Dragonstone is not an easy place to find.

______

It’s been quiet on Dragonstone all day. There are few Dothraki and Unsullied on the island, the rest making their way swiftly across Westeros to hidden Ironborn fleets on the rocky shore. No man on foot or horse is as fast as her Khalasar, and within the week Dany knows her people will cross the sea. The thought of her people together and safe once more thrills her, but nor more than the thought of what was to come that night.

She walks barefooted on the black beach, wrapped in only a light sheer silk. The weather on Dragonstone is always warm, always balmy. The strange weather of the island cocoons the castle and the beaches, a perpetual overcast sky letting only precious few rays of sun through the thick clouds.

Dany basks now in such a ray, the light illuminating her pale skin and colorless hair. Nestled in the sand beside her are eleven stone eggs. They glitter in the light, each one a dusty jewel tone. Dany picks one up, a milky white with veins of silver. She can almost feel a pulse from within, a heat that spreads through her finger and into her body.

Further up the beach, two Dothraki throw driftwood on a massive pyre. Black branches and bleached white ones twist and snag together in a beautiful structure that is as majestic as the jutting stone cliffs behind it. Soon she and her eggs will become part if it, as well.

Her plans are in motion now. Tonight she will hatch her dragons in the flames, birthing new brothers and sisters for her two eldest sons. The thought is inebriating, and Dany can hardly stand the wait, though she knows there are other formalities to be dealt with.

Tyrion has been busy sending ravens to allies. Dorne agreed to back Dany in the fight against Cersei, and the Ironborn are as always, close by and faithful. Yara Greyjoy has been tracking down her uncle relentlessly, undaunted even by the cruelty she had endured under him months before. Dany had promised her revenge, as well.

The new lord of the Stormlands received a raven as well, though his was different from the rest. Dany knew her relationship with the Northern regions of Westeros was tentative at best, but there were certain motions that had to be put into place for all to go well.

Daenerys enjoyed a few more moments of sun, wiggling her toes in the sand. Shedding the cold exterior of the Queen she’d portrayed in the North had been easier than she thought. She was good at it, she knew. Ruling suited her, as did strategy and diplomacy. Yet there was a lightness she had missed, flights of fancy that had been impossible up in the cold North.

Briefly, painfully, she thinks of Jon.

Deep down she knows she can forgive him. Knows that it would take precious little for her to run back to him, to touch him again. To love him.

Her heart hurts, and then the longing subsides, taken over by a bitter sadness. He made his choice, and he would live with it, she decided. If Jon Snow wanted her back, he’d have to beg.

“Khaleesi?”

One of the Dothraki girls Dany had brought on Rhaegal stands near. She holds a plate of dried fruit and raw fish, the delicacies of the island. More like what had been easily procured in short notice, Dany knows, but it’s good food, and rich.

“Thank you, Khili,” she says in the Common Tongue.

Part of her new plan was to teach the girls to read and write, as well as to speak both the languages of Dany’s soon to be Queendom. Missandei had been helping with that, her gift of languages so needed to educate the Khalasar.

Dany eats the food, chewing slowly to relish the fatty texture of the fish. She feels better after eating, the fruit settling the heavy, sick feeling she’s had in her stomach of late.

She quickly buries the eggs deeper in the sand to keep them safe, then makes for Dragonstone Castle.

Inside, it is emptier than when Dany first came to the island. She has torn down the old flags and battlements, rearranged the castle to be more accommodating for her people. The great throne room now houses great barrels of earth, each one holding a precious seedling.

Dany draws near these barrels to inspect them now, turning over each pale leaf and gently pushing down on the damp earth where the stems bent low.

“What was it you once said? ‘Dragons plant no trees’?”

Her Hand makes his way down the hall. He holds a water skin, and a seedling.

“While I appreciate your, erm, botanical endeavors, I do wish you’d delegate me to dragon tending rather than lemon tree watering.”

He quirks a smile. “I am proud.”

Dany folds her hands. “I hope I’m making the right choices, Tyrion. My journey has taken many sharp turns in the last few months. I’d hate to find I was making another wrong move.”

Her voice chides gently. She knows her Hand has been misguided in the past, but his efforts since landing on Dragonstone have redoubled in wit and tenacity.

He looks aside, surveying the rows of growing fruit trees. “You wanted a happy kingdom full of happy, laughing people. I’ve never seen anything like what you have in mind, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make it happen.”

Dany laughs softly. “You surprise me with your optimism, Lord Tyrion. Do you really believe in me, or do you just want a dragon of your own now?”

The Lannister barked out a laugh. “I can’t say the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. You do have more than plenty of them now. Or you will, after tonight. Remind me, how is it exactly that you hatch a dragon?”

She smiled, and walked up to sit on the stone steps. Tyrion followed behind, though he did not sit.

“The dragons must be birthed in flame. Dragons are fire made flesh, and the only thing that wakes them is old magic.”

Tyrion frowned. “Forgive me, your Grace, but I have to ask. Ypu’ve said that you believe your dragons were born because of the blood magic that killed your husband. A life for a life. How will that work this time?”

Dany paused. It was painful, but she knew exactly how it would work.

“My child,” she said softly. “Viserion and Jorah died for me, as did countless other of my Khalasar and my Unsullied.”

She swallowed hard, willing the tears away from her sight.

“Believe me, my lord, there has been death enough for these dragons to be born.”

_____

Night falls on Dragonstone, and the pyre is lit. One of her Khalasar, a scarred and tanned bloodcider with a long braid, lights the pyre with a torch.

The eggs are laid in a circle inside, each one nestled in a protective ring of tinder.

“Are you sure about this?”

Tyrion is fretting, wringing his hands as the flame grow taller. He has never seen the fire magic at work, and Dany sees fear in his eyes. It warms her to know that he is so loyal, despite all they’ve been through, and because of it.

“Fear not, my friend.” She sets a hand on his shoulder, but looks into the flames.

Her violet eyes alight with sparks, Dany lets the heat wash over her. “I have walked through fire enough to know it does not burn me. Fire cannot burn a dragon.”

Tyrion rolls his eyes a bit at the theatrics of it all, but is nevertheless enthralled be the spectacle.

Daenerys shrugs off her dress. This time she knows what will burn in the flames, and she doesn’t want to lose her clothes for no good reason.

Around them all, her blood riders start up a howling, throbbing chant. They pound their arakhs into the ground, screaming into the night. The Unsullied join silently, their spears forming a fast paced bass that cuts through the humid air and sends shivers down the spines of the enthralled.

Dany puts one foot in the flames. It is warm, but comfortable. A teasing lick of heat against her bare skin. She steps up fully into the pyre, using her hands to grab onto driftwood and pull herself up.

She reaches the heart of the fire, and can no longer see her friends around her. Only tall, dancing flames. Bright orange and yellow, and deep red, tongues of fire forked like the tongues of her children.

She sits, the tinder wood prodding her behind. She pays it no mind, too focused on the eggs around her. She touches them all, caressing them and murmuring to them. She feels a deep connection to them, one she had known but not understood the first time, in the first pyre all those years ago.

She had warned the others that it may take all night until dawn for the ritual to complete. “The fire must die down of its own accord,” she had explained. Around her, she still hears the cries of her blood riders, though it is distant and echoing in her ears.

She closes her eyes and breathes.

______

Morning breaks, and Missandei is the first to rise from her place by the pyre. She had not left the beach all night, preferring to stay close to where her Queen was in the burning pyre. Grey Worm had stood silently by her all night, his company keeping her safe and sound.

As the last flames died out and the smoke cleared, she could see the curled form of the Queen in the ashes. Her pale skin was covered in soot, and her hair was treated with grey.

Missandei walks on tip toes through the sand, scared to make a move lest she disturb the magical scene.

Behind her, she heas the Lannister stir. He had stayed most of the night, before going back into the Castle to sleep. He has emerged in the early hours though, carrying a blanket and a bottle. Now he was waking, hair mussed and bleary eyed.

“Did it happen yet?” he slurrs. Red Flea thumps him on the back, waking the Hand of the Queen sharply.

Missandei calls out to the queen in the ashes. “Your Grace?”

The slight figure stirrs, and a cloud of ash rises up from the remains of the fire. Then, the flash of a golden wing. A green head, then a blue one, then a red one!

Tiny, high pitched screeches fill the air as the dragons wake, stretching their colourful wings.

Daenerys rises, wiping her eyes with her hands.

Missandei watches as the young queen observes her children for the first time, a wide smile growing on her sooty face.

She laughs, clear as bells, and the sound fills the air with joy.

Missandei counts ten dragon babies, each more bright and wildly colored than the last. There’s a dark green one with a brown crest, and a red dragon with purple eyes like the Queen’s. The golden dragon is already clawing at the breast of it’s mother, and the two blue ones climb her legs as she stands.

The Queen takes stock, her mouth moving as she counts each one. She frowns, and looks around. She bends, her silver braid swinging, and grasps something from the ashes. It’s the white egg, unhatched and as clean as it had been before the flames.

“This one didn’t hatch,” the Queen calls out. Missandei is unsure of what this means. Did the magic not work?

“That means it’s for me, right?” The Lannister says. Daenerys makes a face at him, then steps out of the pyre.

Missandei is ready with a robe, wrapping it around her shoulders. Daenerys smiles.

“Thank you Missy.”

She holds up one of the dragons clinging to her arms, a red and silver one no bigger than a kitten.

“You must help me name them.”

She looks out at the rest of her camp. “All of you.”

The Queen fixes Tyrion with a coy smile. “You may have the chance to name and tame a dragon yet, my friend.”

The golden haired lord looks ecstatic at the prospect.

Missandei reaches out, and the red dragon climbs onto her outstretched hand. Its claws dig into her skin, but they are like the claws of a cat, thin and harmless. She giggles, and peers into its curious eyes.

“I’m not sure why this one didn’t hatch.” The Queen says. She holds up the white egg. It is smooth, completely unchanged from the fire magic.

“Perhaps the exchange of life was only for ten,” Missandei offers.

Daenerys sighs. “Perhaps. I shall keep it with me, to see if anything changes.”

The party makes their way back into the Castle, a trail of hapless dragons flapping and crawling behind them. Magic and birth is back in Dragonstone, and Missandei smiles, knowing the winds of change are upon them. Soon, a dream of spring would change the course of history.

And Missandei knows that Daenerys the Dreamer has the magic to change the world.

_______

Jon has never liked traveling far. It’s rough, and lonely, and the food is shit. Still, as he hunkers down in his muddy tent, he feels he doesn’t deserve an easy journey. After all, he’s paying for the price of his hesitance.

He’d left Gendry at the crossroads to the Stormlands the night before, and was on his way to White Harbor. He knows it would be easier to find a ship out of the ports in the Kings lands, but after the news from Bran about the Golden Company, Jon won’t chance an encounter with them alone on the road.

Ghost pads back and forth outside the tent, restless. He’d been like that for the past hour, whining and scratching the ground with his great paws. Jon couldn’t keep the wolf calm. It was as though he sensed something on the air, something that made him uneasy.

Jon lifts a sorry spoonful of soup to his lips. His blankets are cold and damp, and he longs for the warmth of his bed at home. Truly, he’s longing for the warmth of his bed after Dany’s been in it, warming him with her heat and her love.

He groans. What a fool he was, pushing her away. He’d tell the world over they were related, crow it from rooftops and mountains, or sew his lips shut and be silent forever, if it meant she’d come back to him.

“Careful, brother. Wouldn’t want someone to hear you out here.”

Jon jumps up, whipping his hunting knife from its sheath. Arya sits cross legged on the tent floor, eating a piece of dried meat.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Jon asks, lowering his knife. Arya just smirks.

“You’re much too easy to sneak up on, big brother. I’d watch out for that, if I were you.”

Jon glares, putting the knife away and sitting down. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

His sister sighs. “I’ve come to make things right. Sansa isn’t in her right mind, and I hate to say it, but we’re fucked without Daenerys. We can’t defend the North from the Golden Company alone.”

Jon snorts. “So now you come to your senses.”

Arya glares daggers at him. “I’m willing to try again, if it means saving our home.”

Jon nods slowly. “Alright then.”

He pulls a furled up map from his satchel, unfolds it on the driest patch of floor.

“I’ve been racking my brain as to where she might have gone. Best I can figure is she’s going back to Essos, back to her people. I’m making my way to White Harbor, going to catch a ship to Pentos and make my way from there to wherever she is.”

Arya stifles a laugh. “God, you really never paid attention to lessons.”

She turns the map over, repositioning it. “You had it so North was facing the wrong way. Where do you think we are now, Jon?”

She’s taunting him, but Jon can only duck his head in embarrassment.

“Fine, but the point is still, find a ship at White Harbor, find Dany in Essos.”

Arya nods. “I’m with you.”

_______

“Where is the Golden Company now?”

Cersei taps her long fingers against the throne. Below her, Qyburn is moving pieces around a massive paper map.

“Almost to The Twins, your Grace.”

She smiles. “Good. And what of my fleet? When can I count on them to deliver on their word?”

Out of the shadows steps Euron. His ringed fingers glint in the candlelight as he sweeps his hands magnanimously.

“My ships are docked and ready for my orders, you’re Queenship. That is, as soon as you deliver on our bargain.”

Cersei grits her teeth and forces a pleasant look at the pirate sorcerer. “Of course. I believe we can discuss that later. In private.”

The Greyjoy smirks, his teeth sharp and eyes dangerous.

Cersei stands, fiddling with her tightly buttoned armor. The rigid clothing envelopes her in a tight embrace, but it keeps her safe. Keeps her grounded.

“What about the item I asked you about?” she asked. “Are you prepared to use it?”

Euron’s eerie grin widens, exposing more teeth. “I am your Grace.”

With a flourish, the pirate procures an ornate horn from deep within his coats. It shines wickedly in the dim light, shadows playing over its curves and hiding the runes carved from the bone.

“No dragon flies through the sky, no wicked flame burns from on high, not while I wield this dragon horn.”

Cersei appraises the horn, reaching out to touch it. Euron moves it out of reach, grabbing her by the wrist instead and tugging her close. She can feel his breath on her cheek, his eyes roving over her body.

“Remember, pretty thing,” he whispers in her ear. “I’m willing to do it all for you. For the right price.”

Cersei puts a hand on his chest, feigning coyness. “And as I have promised, you will receive your boon in full.”

Euron leans in, lips grazing hers. Cersei pulls back sharply. The Mountain, ever present, ever looming, lays a hand on Euron’s decorated shoulder.

Cersei smirks, in control again.

“When the Dragon Queen is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about distance and travel in this fic, since it is important. I'm assuming that Westeros is a bit bigger than the UK (maybe a lot bigger lol) and that one rider on horseback can ride from King's Landing to Winterfell in a little over a week, if he rides hard and rests little. I'm assuming that dragons fly pretty fast, and that a flight from Winterfell to Dragonstone is like a flight from Glasgow to London. Put that into Westeros distances and dragon flight times, and you get about a 10 to 14 hour flight. The Golden Company is moving faster than expected, and that's just a little thing I put in to add tension lol. 
> 
> I'm also going to be assuming that a trip across the narrow sea takes only about a couple days, since I'm assuming it's a bit like the English Channel, but bigger. 
> 
> If any of this seems to far fetched, feel free to compain in the comments lol, I am open to making some mechanical changes in my writing!


	4. Another Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait! I started school again, and I'm taking graduate classes this semester, so it's been understandeably difficult these past few weeks. I'm back though, and though this is a shortish chapter. I hope it's worth the wait. :D

_“We shall not cease from exploration_   
_And the end of all our exploring_   
_Will be to arrive where we started_   
_And know the place for the first time.” _   
_― T. S. Eliot_

Over a fortnight has passed since the birth of the new dragons, and still the white and silver egg is unbroken. Dany can’t fathom why not—all of its siblings had hatched in the flames on the beach without issue— but she keeps it in her bed still, cradles it close at night and feels it pulse under her skin. It is alive, she knows. Alive, but dormant.

She is lying just that way when dawn breaks over the rocky cliffs, the light a pale blue. A fine mist covers the island this morning, and for the first time since her arrival Daenerys feels a chill come over her body.

Missandei enters her chambers quietly. The time has long passed where her most treasured handmaiden must knock and wait to enter. There are no secrets between the two women, and they are closer than sisters.

“Your Grace, you must come to the throne room at once.”

Daenerys rolls over, bunching the silk covers around her. “Must I?”

Missandei has a strange expression, a tenseness that alarms Dany.

“Jaime Lannister is here.”

Daenerys sits upright at once, eyes flashing.

“He’s here? On Dragonstone? Why?”

Missandei spreads her hands in defeat and shrugs. Her slim fingers stroke the sheets with fast, light touches.

“He’s exhausted, filthy. He says he’s been riding without pause for three weeks to reach you, your Grace.’

Dany frowns. Jaime Lannister was no friend, but he was no enemy either, not anymore. She knew her Hand must have let him pass, or the Unsullied would have left him on the beaches. Gods only knew what must have passed for the less evil twin to seek passage to her little Queendom.

Daenerys rises, begins to dress with practiced, assured movements. She feels the chill in the air, thinks of a place where tall pines grow and the frost on the breeze past a grey keep. She pulls on a Westerosi dress, trusting in the stiff supports and rigid material to keep her warm and secure.

“Missandei, help me with these stays.”

The slender scribe is at her back at once, soft hands pulling at the laces. The stiff bone stays of Westerosi garb have always felt suffocating to Dany, but this morning they feel almost unbearable. She waves a hand, sucking in a deep breath. Missandei pauses.

“Are you alright?”

Dany chokes down another breath and nods. “These damn Westerosi clothes.”

She offers a weak chuckle. “This is why there have been no queens to conquer the Seven Kingdoms. They make them weak with tight dresses and pinched shoes.”

Missandei gives an experimental tug on the laces and Dany cries out again. Quickly, her friend is spinning her around, crouching down to examine the stays at the front.

“I believe we may need to have Niqhi let this dress out,” she says slowly. “Try this one.”

Her curly head disappears into the wardrobe as she searches for a more forgiving garment. She soon hands Dany a looser dress with stays of reed instead of bone. Dany pulls it on, struggles with the front facing buttons the line the side of the dress.

“It’s no good,” she says. “I must have gained weight in the North. Too much rich food.”

Missandei looks at her questioningly but does not say anything. Dany dresses in an Essosi tunic style dress. It has a high collar, but the slits up the sides allow for free movement.

Walking down the stairs to the throne room, they are joined by two Essosi serving girls. They had come to Dragonstone with the Ironborn at the last meeting, before the war against the dead. Before a great many things.

Missandei chats with the girls in their native tongue, a lilting and pretty language Dany does not know. Both girls sneak glances at her, though Daenerys can’t make out a word of their chatter. She busies herself eating the soft fried bread they have brought her instead. This morning it tastes different, the usually sweet butter turning an acrid sour on her tongue. It has never happened before, and Dany is sure to eat without complaint.

They reach the throne room, and Dany bids farewell to the girls. She and Missandei are the first to enter the great room, where Dany finds a circle of chairs arranged in front of the great throne. She had sat on the immense throne but once, when Jon had come to Dragonstone. She found the experience empowering for a moment, but wholly disappointing. Since then, she had insisted on sitting in a circle, at equal levels, the way she had in Essos.

Not long after, the doors open and Tyrion walks in, accompanied by two familiar faces.

“Tyrion. Jaime. Varys, what a surprise. I was wondering when you’d join us.”

The Spider bowed low, his robes sweeping the floor.

“Apologies, your Grace. I took a longer route to Dragonstone. Many things to see and hear on the way, you see. Though I am sad to have missed the party.”

He gestures at the throne, where two dragons, the size of large cats, are snoozing.

Dany smiles. “Indeed. A pity you couldn’t have been there. But you are here now, and I am very interested to hear what you have to say.” She looks at Jaime pointedly. “Both of you.”

She gestures to the gathered chairs and everyone sits. Tyrion to her right, Missandei to her left. Varys and Jaime fill in the remaining two seats somewhat awkwardly, the taller Lannister folding into his seat with an uncharacteristic slump.

He speaks as soon as he is seated.

“Cersei has begun to scheme and plot. The Golden Company is further north than we anticipated, though they’ve set up camp a fair way from the true North still. I’m not sure why they’ve halted, but I imagine it’s to do with the elephants.”

Tyrion jumps in. “Well, that’s good news then. If they can’t make it through the main roads into the North, then there is time still to do something about it.”

Jaime shakes his head tiredly. “I wish it were just that. I’d give my good hand if it were just the fucking Golden Company we had to worry about.”

He looks up at Dany. “Cersei has a cache of wildfyre under the city. Barrels of it in the sewers, hidden in plain sight in the streets, in the Red Keep. I heard some soldiers talking about it on the road. I thought I could go back, convince her to come quietly, maybe. But it appears she’s too far gone for that.”

Varys chimes in. “Your Grace, I wish I had something more pleasant to add to this, but I’m afraid I’ve heard some similarly troubling news from the city. Smallfolk are being taken to the city center, temporary houses being built right outside the steps of the Red Keep. It would appear that Cersei is redoubling her efforts to keep safe inside her high tower.”

Tyrion curses, then hangs his head.

“I’m afraid I have been keeping some information from you, my Queen.”

Dany turns to him, shocked. “What kind of information, Tyrion?”

Tyrion wrings his hands, eyes not meeting hers. “Cersei is pregnant. I found out when I met with her in Kings Landing.”

Dany stared at him, mouth open. She turns to Jaime.

“Is this true? Is Cersei with child?”

Jaime stares measuredly at the ground. “She told me that just before I left to come North. I thought she was manipulating me to stay, but if she told Tyrion the same, it must be true.”

Dany whips back around to face Tyrion.

“This changes everything,” she whispers furiously. “How could you keep this from me?”

Tyrion raises his head. His eyes are watery, and he still avoids her gaze. Suddenly, the anger evaporated from her. Dany presses her lips together, still shaken, but she knows. She has heard Tyrion before, how he speaks of his siblings with the strangest emotions. Not just anger, not just disappointment and resentment, but also grief.

Dany can so clearly envision her brother, the evil man who sold her to Drogo. Yet beneath the cold sneer stamped in her memory, there’s a softer image that begs to be seen. A younger Vis, her brother with shorter hair, a wider smile. The brother who told her stories and held her hand as she slept. She knows too well what it is to long for a person who is no more, who became evil before her very eyes.

Dany wipes a tear from her eye. “Fine. We change the plan then. Clearly an attack on King’s Landing is out of the question, at least as long as Cersei is holding the small folk hostage. What do you suggest, Tyrion?”

He looks up at the use of his name, rare from her. He stammers for a moment, clearly expecting an outburst, or at least words of anger.

“I-well, I think we should prepare for the worst. We should assume that my sister is willing to sacrifice the whole city in order to remain in power. We can’t burn anything, we don’t have the numbers to storm the city by force. We’ll have to be subtle. Use the cover of night, invade quietly.”

Dany nods. “A covert operation, then. Varys, please find out all you can about where the smallfolk are being held.”

The eunuch nods, takes his leave immediately, not one to stick around if not needed.

“Tyrion, please do all you think prudent in order to prepare a silent invasion of the city. You know the city planning better than anyone here.”

Jaime stands. “I know you have no good reason to trust me still, but I’m here, and I’m willing to lose it all if it means my sister can’t wreak havoc on the world any longer.”

Daenerys considers him. “I’ll need someone who knows the palace to be by my side when we enter. Prove yourself trustworthy, and be my general in this fight. Do all you can, even if it means putting your blade in your twin’s heart to ensure our success, and you will earn your place in my kingdom.”

Jaime is silent, but he nods his affirmation. There is sadness about him, yet another form of grief Dany knows too well.

She adds softly, “It is not an easy thing I ask of you, See Jaime. I know this. I have killed for mercy and for love, and I know the pain that it causes.”

Jaime looks at her with great emotion before turning and leaving, a whispered excuse on his breath.

Her Hand breathes a great sigh. “This is too much to endure before my morning cup.”

Dany snorts. “If you can, please consider taking that cup only after you bring me a solid plan for invasion.”

He sighs again, but it’s a lighter sound. “Very well. And what will you be contributing to this cause, if I may ask?”

Dany stands. “Drogon and Rhaegal will be of no use to us if the city is booby trapped. I’ll have them stay here with my people until we return for them. As for my contribution, I still have some allies I can count on to help me in dire times.”

Tyrion looks at her, one scraggly eyebrow raised.

“I assume you mean the new Lord of Storm’s End?”

Dany grips the back of her seat. “I told you putting legitimizing Robert’s bastard in charge would be useful to us one day, my Lord.”

______________________________________________

There were many downsides to being in Pentos as a Northerner, but none were so terrible as being totally unprepared for the heat.

Jon had not even considered that there may be a greater difference in climate between Westeros and Essos. Not even King’s Landing in the summer was this hot, he was sure of it. Sweat rolls down his back under his fur cloak, and he wipes uselessly at his brow. All around him, people of all types bustle about. Women with great baskets balanced on their heads and children on their hips and men with stylishly trimmed beards and dyed hair buy and sell and trade on every corner.

Beside him, Arya walks briskly. She has already cut her Northern leathers into short breeches that hit just below her knees, and the collar of her tunic has been slashed. She isn’t sweating at all, and Jon notices how she seems to glow with a strange vigor under this foreign sun.

“Tell me again about the Burning of the Lannisters,” she says, turning her dark eyes on him.

That was the one upside to their journey. For three weeks, Jon had been confined to a cramped ship’s cabin with his sister. His longing took the better of him, and he had passed the time regaling her with stories he had learned of Daenerys. Everything he had heard of her, all the stories she had told him of herself and her time in Essos, he recounted it all to a rapt Arya, who took in every word with wide eyes.

“You never told me any of this!” she had exclaimed one night on the ship. He had shrugged, a dark melancholy taking hold of him. “You never cared to ask,” he had said. “You made up your mind before you even knew her.” At that, his sister had kept quiet for many days.

Now Arya may well have been more of a fan of Daenerys than he was himself.

Jon sighs and glares up at the sun. “I’ve told you that one five times already.”

Arya groans. “But I want to hear it again. All about how the Lannisters were fried to a crisp in their gold and red shells, like crabs!”

Jon shakes his head. He’s learned that his little sister is much more macabre than he remembered, and is more than a little sickened by her tales of being a Faceless Man. Those were stories he’d rather not remember too soon if he could help it.

“You’re too dark for your own good, little sister,” he says. “I’m more afraid for Daenerys when she sees you again than for you.”

Arya wrinkles her nose. “Speaking of your lady love, you never told me why we came to Pentos of all places. Doesn’t seem like they’ve had a Dragon Queen here, ever.”

Jon rakes a hand through his mess of curls and has to agree. The city of Pentos is exotic and fragrant and interesting, but it’s definitely not seen Dany’s particular brand of justice recently. There are brothels and leering men, and Jon knows there are slaver’s ships in the bay, though no slave markets are held in the city.

“Daenerys-Dany, used to talk of a house in Pentos,” he explains. “A house with a red door.”

Arya looks at him as though he had two heads. “A pretty story, but you mean you don’t actually know if she came here or not? Jon, she could still be in Westeros for all we know!”

Jon knows she’s right, but he had to be sure. He had acted impassively, he knows. Jumping on board a ship bound for a land in which he knew none of the languages was foolhardy at best, and dangerous at worst. He was already lucky Arya had found him, and that she speaks some Valeryian.

They settled in an inn for the night. Pentosi inns are lavish compared to the ones Jon is used to. Pleasure girls wait on them and silk cushions were piled high to lounge on while they ate strange fruits.

Jon is nearly asleep on his cushion, the sweet wine taking him to even sweeter dreams of Dany on the boat, Dany with her creamy skin and white hair like a curtain around him, her piercing eyes and sharp tongue…

“Jon! Jon! Wake up!”

Arya kicks him sharply and he bolts upright. She jerks a hand towards the door and motions for him to stay quiet.

By the door are three Ironborn, the kraken sigil on their cloaks. He can’t understand them, as they are speaking to the innkeeper in a foreign tongue.

“What are they saying,” he whispers to Arya. She listens closely, keeping her head turned so as not to attract attention.

“They’re asking if the innkeeper has seen another Ironborn. A Greyjoy.” She tilts her head.

“They’re asking about a horn…wait, no. A Dragon. Wait.”

“Is it a horn or is it a dragon?” Jon asks impatiently.

Arya shakes her head, her brows furrowed. “Jon, this doesn’t sound good.”

The Ironborn are leaving, and the innkeeper is saying something loudly to a group of men seated by the door. They all burst into laughter, but Arya’s face pales.

“What,” Jon bites out. “What is it?”

Arya swallows. “They’re looking for Euron Greyjoy, wanted for kinslaying and torture. They say he’s stolen something from Essos, they were asking if anyone had come looking for him.”

Her eyes are wide as she speaks. “Jon, they said he has a dragon horn. He can control them with magic.”

Jon frowns. “That’s bad if he finds Dany, but we don’t know where either of them are.”

Arya shakes her head. “We need to find those Ironborn. Maybe Yara Greyjoy is with them.”

Jon grits his teeth and stands, one hand on Longclaw.

“Then we go after them. Now.”

________________________________________________________

Planning the invasion proved to be no easy task for Daenerys. There were ravens to send and and soldiers to train. The Unsullied could be silent as death if needed, disciplined and deadly, but the Dothraki were another story. Daenerys and Grey Worm had been working for the better part of a week to train them, yet the horsemen could not fathom why anyone would want to go into battle without screaming and waving their arakhs ablaze.

It was a matter of dignity, they kept saying. Dany understands that, but she also needs them to be quiet on the night of the invasion, and flameless. One spark could set the whole city ablaze and kill thousands, as well as alert Cersei to their presence.

Varys had been a great help, to her never ending surprise. For once, he was being direct and helpful, as opposed to vague and cryptic. His little birds were hard at work supplying them with information about the smallfolk. Dany had her own little bird helping them as well.

Gendry had written back within a day of receiving her raven. As a former resident of Flea Bottom, he was full of advice and ideas for the invasion. Dany hoped his knowledge would help them evacuate the areas closest to the wildfyre within the month.

Tyrion was hopeful for an invasion on the new moon, in three week’s time. The black sky would keep them under cover of darkness, and the lack of moon in the sky would mean that should they need to leave by ship, the tides would be kind.

Dany rests in her solar, drafting letters to the Northern Keep. It was an issue she has been avoiding, the North. The knowledge of the Golden Company means she cannot let the Starks simply sit and wait like lambs for slaughter, though she knows they don’t want her help. No one knows when the soldiers will attack, or where. Knows from Varys still says that they were lying in wait, camped in the muddy side banks of the king’s road.

Tyrion supposes they are trying to starve out the North first, intimidate them into submission or death. Dany is unsure, but her mind is occupied by other matters.

None of her Westerosi clothes fit. She is winded by a mere flight of stairs, and the smell of meat is so enticing it brings tears to her eyes.

Missandei is worried, Dany knows. She has been denying it for days now, but she can no longer ignore the blatant signs in front of her.

Dany disrobes in front of the looking glass, careful not to look as she lets the silk fall from her body. She stretches, enjoying the freedom for a moment. Her body aches in places she has not ached for years.

She turns, anxious, and peers into the glass. Just as she had feared, she sees her changed form.

Dany smoothes her small hands over the slight half moon curve of her belly. Years of dragon riding and being on the run had made her stomach hard and flat, but now it is soft and sticks out gently just under her navel. Too small to see with clothes on, but now that she is bare, Dany wonders how she could have ever missed this.

She knows it must be a full three moons, if not more. When was it exactly that she had first bedded Jon? That night on the boat, she knew. It seems eons ago that she had shared that bed with him, had let him come inside her and fill her with hope.

Now here she is. Alone, and yet, not. A child, she marvels. Only Jon could have given her that.

Dany stays a moment more at the mirror, turning this way and that to wonder at her soft figure. Her belly is firm, a sign that her tiny child is healthy. How could this be? Only the blood of the dragon, she thinks, could have given her this. More proof of Jon’s true nature.

Blood of my blood.

Dany decides not to tell anyone. She dresses, wraps a belt of purple chiffon around her midsection, just in case. No one can know, she thinks. She mustn’t test this magic, this magic that has given her what she wants so badly.

Instead, she doubles down on her preparations for the invasion. Food stores are prepared for the smallfolk who will start to arrive soon. Ravens are sent to the Ironborn asking for naval assistance if need be. Dorne agrees to send extra food in exchange for the promise of revenge, the thirst for vengeance tripled since the news of more Dornish blood spilt at the hands of Cersei.

Her dragons are another concern of hers, and a delight. She’s never had so many children to think of at once, and the thought both overwhelms and excites her. Rhaegal, of course, is thrilled to have siblings to shepherd and tease. Drogon is a wonderful older sibling to all the dragons, and they are soon flying clumsily through the air above Dragonstone with both older dragons, seeming like butterflies beneath the massive wings of Drogon and Rhaegal.

The waters around the island are plentiful in fish, and all her children learn to dive beneath the waves and hunt for their food. Something in Dany breaks just a little each time she sees one of her children fall beneath the cresting waves, the image of her Viserion burned into her memory forever. Yet, unfailingly, the dragons rise above the waters again each time, the bounty of their hun caught in their sharp teeth.

She still nurses them, when they want. The first few weeks they had keened during the night, and she had stayed awake to nurse them at her breast. Though she remembered what it was like from the first time, she still felt an awe and a terror at the the appearance of her milk, breasts swollen and heavy. Though, now, Dany feels she ought to have realized sooner that this time was different. Her body was changing, making room for this new life, and feeding her children already born.

Never had her titles of motherhood felt so rewarding as they did now.

________________________________________________________________-

It takes a week to track down Yara Greyjoy in Pentos, and another three days before Jon and Aryaare able to meet her face to face. When they finally do, they are met with the Queen of the Salton Seas, a haggard and weary Yara Greyjoy.

“I want to know why you’re here, and I want to know fast. I want nothing more to do with the children of Ned Stark.”

They are in Yara’s private chambers in her ship. Stripped of his sword, his daggers, and his sheath, Jon felt naked beneath the glower being focused on him now.

Theon’s death had wrecked Yara. Not a month after her reunion with her brother, who saved her, and he was dead. Dead because he protected Bran, and the North.

“I know I gave him the choice to stay, and I don’t regret it,” she had said. Yet she regard them now with little more than polite hostility.

But Jon also had no time to waste.

“We’ve heard that your uncle has a weapon that might threaten Daenerys.”

Yara looks nonplussed. “My uncle is a sorcerer and and a cunt. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“He has a dragon horn.” Arya steps forward. “He can control her dragons, if he’s close enough. We need to know where Daenerys is.”

At this Yara seems concerned. “That’s just fucking right. One more magical fuck in the world to make sure there’s no hope.”

She leans forward on her arms, sighs through parted lips. “Daenerys is on Dragonstone. I shouldn’t tell you that, she didn’t want you to know. But she’s there, and she’s planning an invasion. She asked for my help when they go to take Cersei down.”

Arya and Jon exchange looks.

“That’s good then,” Arya says. “Dragonstone isn’t too far away, we can be back in just a few week’s time.”

Yara shakes her head. “I just got word from my uncle. Don’t know how he found me to send a raven and I don’t care.”

She plucks a scroll from her desk and throws it. Jon catches it in his hand, unfurls it quickly. It’s bad news.

“He’s in King’s Landing,” Jon says, eyes darting up to meet Yara’s. She nods darkly.

He continues reading. “He says he’s going to marry Cersei and take the Seven Kingdoms by storm, then the world. Oh Gods…”

“What?” Arya snatches the scroll out of Jon’s frozen hands. Her eyes widen.

“He wants Dany’s dragons. And he knows she’s on Dragonstone.”

Jon is already out the door, boots heavy on the creaking ship deck. Arya is on his heels in a moments and Yara follows them out onto the main deck.

“You won’t make it back in time if you go on one of those passenger ships,” Yara calls out.

“Best you stay right where you are, Starklings. I’ll take you to Westeros.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah. Lots going on, lots of preparations happening. To be honest, I wrote this in a bit of a daze, so be sure to let me know what you think in the comments. I haven't been writing much in the past few weeks, so I may adjust a few things. I'm still totally unbeta'ed after all, lol. 
> 
> Pls be kind :D


	5. Exploration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no update!! Please excuse the very short chapter, I have a lot planned out and outlined, but as you might have noticed, I've not had the inspiration nor the time to write recently. All my WIPs will be updated this week as the holiday bustle dies down. 
> 
> Also, please forgive any continuity/plot holes, as I have decided to edit this work for some little things that are bugging me and will be important to future chapters. I have no beta, so this is all my own drivel. 
> 
> Thank you, and enjoy!!

_"For last year's words belong to last year's language and next year's words await another voice."_

_\--T.S Eliot_

A week and five days passes in the blink of an eye for the rag-tag residents of Dragonstone, each sunset bleeding into the next like sand washing into crystal waters, but for Dany, it is agonizingly slow. There are so many things she must do to prepare for Kings Landing, so many ravens to send and so many long, tedious hours spent in argument with Tyrion or Jaime. Truly there was no perfect way to attack the Red Keep; try as they might, there simply wasn’t a clear path. Outright attack by fire and blood would slay too many innocent; yet a bloodless pursuit would surely lead to Cersei’s escape and eventual triumph.

A shining moment was the day Dany received a raven from the newly made Lord Baratheon. After a morning filled with sickness and endless puzzling over schematics of the city, Varys brought to her study a small furled parchment. The message was short, and written in Gendry’s endearing scratch. It said, simply, “We’re taking the small folk. Wait a fortnight.”

After further questioning to Varys, Dany learned that Gendry had amassed a small squadron of cads, squires, and ne’er do wells from Flea Bottom, well versed in traveling unseen, to pull the small folk held hostage from the city.

  
“A secret caravan,” Varys had said, eyes gleaming. “If they are successful, the inner city will be empty in a fortnight, your Grace.”

It was a god send. With the area closest to the keep free of civilians, that would free up more space for Dany’s army.

Alone now, almost a fortnight later, she rests her head in her hands, palms pressing into her eyes. Her stomach roils, and she calls softly to the Unsullied posted outside the door of her solar for some water. She knows he will hear her. However, a few moments later, it is not Khili or Rrhia, her Dothraki handmaidens, who opens the door, but Jaime Lannister.

He ducks his golden head in respect, then enters, his steps cautious.

“Your Grace, I wondered if I might have a word.”

Dany nods her head, more than a little surprised. The Lion had been avoiding her, or she avoiding him, since their first meeting in the throne room. Neither had really wanted to broach the subject of her family’s demise and his role in aiding it, though it loomed over the halls of Dragonstone like a heavy fog. Dany feels too torn to trial him, at once angry and miserable at the loss of her only relatives, and bitter in the knowledge that killing the Mad King may truly have been the only just course of action. She can’t give Jaime Lannister the lick of flame and the trial by blood she’d wanted to when she’d fist seen him, not now that she knew the whole truth.

Jaime sits in the empty armchair across from Dany, by her desk. His normally roguish and slack posture is tight and his brow furrowed.

“I must be the one to kill Cersei”, he says after a long pause. He draws his brows together as if in pain, then closes his eyes, his expression smooth. “We were born together, we lived happily in sin together, and now I own that it is the time for us both to die together.”He shakes his head, looking somewhat dazed. “The old bitch was right”, he mutters, mostly to himself.

Dany sits back, thinking. Certainly she had no love for this lion, but she didn’t see any reason for him to throw his life away either. Especially since…

“What about Ser Brienne?”

Jaime looks startled for a moment as he lifts his gaze to Dany’s, but too quickly he arranges his features, affects a careless demeanor.

“What of her? She’s far up North, attending to brats and fending off the advances of the giant-fucker. Besides”, he adds, “We’re, ah, acquaintances at best. Comrades, really. I do her a favor, she repays it, I save her life, and so on. It’s only happenstance we’ve been thrown together so often as we have.”He shrugs.

Dany smiles a little, steepling her fingers in front of her face. “Is that so? What a shame. I was under the impression you two were quite the romantic pair. Ser Brienne can’t seem to tear her eyes from you when you’re around. But never mind that, I trust your word.”

Jaime pulls a face. “Do you? Trust my word? I can’t see a reason why you would.”

Dany sighs and stands, pacing behind the back of her own chair. “Lord Jaime, we have to reason to be friends. But I see no reason why we must remain enemies, either. You slew my father, put a sword in his back, but you also committed an act of heroism. I am not my father, and I trust you know that if you ever tried to kill me, you would be ash on the breeze before your blade pierced my heart. We have a common goal, which is to stop Cersei from her tyranny. If you kill her, that’s fine by me, but if you do not, I will. Is that clear?”

Jaime had leaned back in his chair, arms draping over the sides. Even through his affected calm, Dany sees the struggle within. She moves to stand in front of him, commanding his gaze.

“You do not have to die, Ser Jaime,” she whispers. “You are not your twin. You have a chance to begin again, if you so choose to. You have only to prove your worth.”

With that, she leaves him in her solar to ponder.

_________________________________

Later that evening, the council convenes one last time in the throne room, in that little circle of chairs sat just in front of the dais. Tyrion is the first to arrive, for once stone cold sober, and frowning heavily. Behind him, Dany steps lightly.

“Lord Hand, please have a little more faith in me and in our plan,” she says, not unkindly. Her Hand merely throws his hand up and sits, folding and unfolding his gloves.

“This plan,” he starts, “Is the best one we could come up with, in the least amount of time, with armies that are sorely depleted of numbers. Your Grace, there is a slight chance that this will go perfectly, and if it does, I will personally strip and do a little dance for all the small folk of King’s Landing, but I’m afraid there is just too much left to chance!”

Varys and Jaime walk in one after the other, and finally Missandei and Grey Worm. The latter two take their places at Dany’s right and left, while Varys and Jaime fill in the chairs to the cardinal east and west.

“Your Grace,” says Jaime, all business now in the council. “Using the tunnels and back entrances will give us an element of stealth, and if we have the Unsullied stationed at all exits and entrances, we have a better chance of cornering Cersei in her tower.”

Tyrion snorts. “And what of the element you all seem to be forgetting? That Cersei is desperate and sure to have some trick of her sleeve that we did not anticipate?” He waves a hand for emphasis. “We don’t have the ability to neutralize the wildfyre, and even if we did, who knows what fiendish mercenaries and traps lay within the keep?” He sighs. “Your Grace, I really wish you weren’t so intent on going yourself on this mission.”

Dany frowns. “I cannot assume command of the throne if I am not the one to take it. That is not the kingdom I want to have, one where monarchs hide and cower while others do their dirty work.”

Tyrion puts his head in his hands and groans. “I know, I know. It just makes me uneasy, knowing Cersei won’t come quietly.”

“She will.”Jaime says softly. “I will see to it.”

Varys rolls his eyes slightly, his hands hidden in his oversized sleeves. “And how will you do that, young lion?” He asks. “Are you going to fuck her until we get the chance to slit her throat?”

Jaime’s jaw works furiously, and he grips the edge of his seat with white knuckles, but maintains his calm.

“Because,” he says smoothly. “I shall be the one to kill her.”

The silence that follows that statement could suffocate a Silent Sister.

But really, there is nothing more to be said after Jaime’s admission. Tyrion looks somberly at his brother, not quite grasping the depth of this twist, but so close to touching on the changing heart. And so relieved to imagine a future with a family he called his own, still. He would not lose everything, after all.

Varys seems particularly pleased, and preens his embroidered robes as though he himself had orchestrated this turn of events.

No one has much to share after this. Dany has already taken Jaime’s plan into account and relayed it to Grey Worm. Her commander steps forward, after no one speaks for a time, and raises his voice.

“This one has prepared Unsullied and Dothraki for stealth attack on King’s Landing,” he says sternly. “In 10 days, King’s Landing will fall.”

Dany stands and folds her hands over her still flat stomach, and surveys her council.

“We leave at dawn,” she says. “No more surprises.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this chapter was fun and set the scene for all the good things yet to come! I'm not sure yet how many chapters this will be, but it won't be an epic length fic. I'm leaning towards five chapters, but that's subject to change. As I'm new to the writing game I can't say for sure how often I'll be updating, but count on weekly updates at least. And yes, I do write in present tense. I'm not great at writing in past tense, but if you guys hate it, I can change it up for the next chapter. 
> 
> I hope I did a decent job explaining some of Dany's thoughts and fears, as well as setting up some foreshadowing for events to come (mwahaha!)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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